


Madam la Ministre and the Goblet of Fire

by Terahlyanwe



Series: Unlikely Universes [13]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Beauxbatons, Book 4: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Canon Compliant, POV Original Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:41:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26162059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Terahlyanwe/pseuds/Terahlyanwe
Summary: Ministre Beauchamp d'Aquitaine is not enjoying diplomatic relations with England's Ministry of Magic. At all.
Series: Unlikely Universes [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/84481
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	Madam la Ministre and the Goblet of Fire

**Author's Note:**

> This short story was born from a prompt that was, essentially, "All the other magical countries in the Harry Potter universe use up-to-date technology, it's just England that sticks with owls, parchment, etc."

"Damn isolationist antitechers," the Minister of Aquitaine muttered, summoning her cane to her side to help her stand. Her aide appeared on her other side, ably assisting her.

"I didn't know we had floo hookups anymore, Minister Beauchamp,” he said, deftly rotating them both and opening the door with a flick of his wand.

“Audéarde, please, Domard,” the Minister said, pausing and stretching her stiff knee. “We have to keep the Floo because England refuses to upgrade. Their Ministry has refused to acknowledge that it’s even possible to do so. Their Unspeakables confiscate every bit of modern tech that passes into their borders. And so, officials all over the world keep Floos and kneel on the ground and put their faces into fires, and import Floo dust made from increasingly endangered magical animals to appease England’s national technophobia.”

Domard shot her a worried glance. “Then how will the Beauxbatons students keep in contact with their families next year, Madame la Ministre?”

Audéarde rolled her eyes and sank into her office chair with a sigh. “Owls,” she said blankly.

“Madame…”

“Owls, Domard. The birds. They can carry letters back and forth. Hogwarts staff have also agreed to bundle letters and Floo them once a week. At that rate, the owls will be faster.”

“I haven’t heard of anyone using owls outside of _fancier_ races and shows,” Domard mused.

“It’s England. They use owls,” Audéarde sighed. “It’s a wonder their Muggles haven’t noticed them yet, what with the robes, owls flying about in broad daylight, and recurring terrorist problem.”

Audéarde drew a sigil in the air, fiery lines following her finger and blossoming into a round projection, runes endlessly circling the outer rim. A keyboard formed on her desk, and she typed rapidly for a few moments. Domard slid a pain potion onto the desk and vanished to his antechamber. Audéarde eyed it for a moment, resolutely continued typing, then sighed and flicked the wax cap off the tiny bottle.

_“Certifié par l’Institut des Remèdes Magiques,”_ a thin voice whispered directly into her ear as an anti-tampering symbol lit up on the wax, then flared and vanished along with it. Audéarde nodded to herself, sighed, and tipped the potion into her mouth. Tight lines along her eyes and mouth vanished and she let her shoulders drop with a sigh of relief. Audéarde flicked her wand and pulled strands of her steel-grey hair back into her bun, leaned forward, and continued to type.

“Goddamn technophobes,” she hissed, stabbing her fingers into the keyboard. “Domard!”

He appeared scarcely a moment later. “Madame la Ministre?”

“I need to see the authenticated copy of the Treaty of ‘14 with England. It might not be legal for any of our Cauchemar or Veela descended students and faculty to go to Hogwarts.” Domar’s eyes widened for a moment, then he bowed and vanished out the door.

* * *

“Racist, anti-abolitionist, creaturist, isolationist sacks of shit!” Audéarde duplicated the letter in her hand, crumpled it, threw it into the air, and set it on fire. It vanished in a white-hot flare, leaving Audéarde blinking spots out of her vision.

“Foolish old woman,” she muttered to herself. “to hell with the Goblet of Fire Treaty of 1651, we didn’t have to send our best and brightest to be assaulted and stalked.”

A looping video played on her Runescreen. A weeping, dark-haired girl, baffled and confused about why English Aurors had laughed at her, put a trace on her wand like she was a criminal, and had cited her for illegal Apparation, despite her International Apparation license _and_ the fact that she had been fleeing an English attacker.

Audéarde typed furiously for several minutes, then hit enter. Then she swore under her breath. “Domard!”

Unlike his impeccable appearance before the whole terrible Tri-Wizard Travesty, her assistant now looked frazzled more often than not.

“I’ve printed out a document. Bring it to me from the printer along with a England-authorized diplomatic pouch, please.”

Her documents and pouch were brought to her in a quarter of an hour, sending her waning tolerance towards the English much, much lower.

“If those gods bedamned idiots would use the Internationally Certified Messaging system, we wouldn’t be wasting so much paper. Or time. Or patience.” Audéarde nearly snarled as she fetched a stick of dusty wax from the bottom of a drawer and painstakingly dripped it onto the flap of the diplomatic pouch. She withdrew an ancient, mithril stamp and slammed it into the wax with a muttered incantation and handed it to Domard once the flash of magic had withdrawn into the pouch.

“Please floo that to the English Ministry,” she instructed him. “Authorization,” she flicked her wand and sparks of magic flew into the air and settled into a neat circle of runes, rotating around his head. Domard looked a little alarmed, but bowed as neatly as ever and withdrew with the pouch.

The Senior Press Secretary was her next headache for the day.

“I understand the backlash, Madame, but we cannot ethically, morally, or legally refrain from a press release informing the people of this international incident.”

“Mademoiselle Duchamp is a student; can her name be kept out of the press?”

Monsieur Gauthier looked pained. “She is of age, and being deported back to Aquitaine. We cannot withhold her name.”

Domard knocked and stepped into the office with a much more worn diplomatic pouch than the one she’d sent him off with. “The Minister for Magic and the Head Auror have sent their replies, Madame,” he said, putting the pouch into her hand. She peeled off the wax, winced at the bellow of _“Authorized by Minister Fudge!”_ that made her ears ring, and scanned through the reply.

“Merci à magi,” she said, “they have accepted my assurances that Mademoiselle Duchamp will be dealt with appropriately in her own country and are prepared to transfer her to our marshalls’ custody. Domard, order one of those antiquated automobiles that won’t offend their sensibilities and turn this over to the Département de la Justice _which has been their jurisdiction this entire time,”_

Audéarde hissed the latter through her teeth, knocked back a Calming Draught, and sighed. “Assure Mademoiselle Duchamp’s family that no domestic or international citations will be filed against her. And that a warrant for the English rapist will be served against him immediately if he ever enters Aquitaine's jurisdiction.”

Domard bowed himself out of the office with a mournful look that she knew meant _“Madame, I have not seen my husband in a week and would quit my job were I not so ambitious,”_ and she turned her gaze on Monsieur Gauthier.

“I will phrase the press release as diplomatically as possible, Madame la Ministre,” Monsieur Gauthier assured her, and excused himself hurriedly with barely a flinch at the magic sparking off the ends of her hair.

* * *

“Madame la Ministre?”

“Entrez-vous, Domard,” she said tiredly. _Of course_ once the diplomatic hell that was the Tri-Wizard Terribleness had begun to settle in the build-up for the Third Task _Les Aquitaines_ had kicked up an almighty fuss over Mademoiselle Duchamps...which had led to a diplomatic fracas as Aquitaine businesses had begun to pull out of contracts and deals. Informal sanctions though they may be, Minister Fudge had reacted as though Audéarde had the ability to order her people to do business with England.

“Yesterday afternoon, during the Third Task, the English terrorist _Vol de Mort_ returned.”

Audéarde shot to her feet, ignoring the old, old pain in her knee. “Why am I only now being informed of this?”

“The English Minister sent the news by owl, Madame.”

Audéarde - immersed in images of Beauxbatons’ entire delegation at Hogwarts dead, injured, the Aquitaine people understandably calling for her resignation (or possibly her head) - conjured a privacy shield to cover her half of the office, and _screamed_.

Domard held out a Calming Draught.


End file.
